The Basics of Diabolical Plots
by Ante Down
Summary: A brief account of the life and times of Harold Saxon between 2004 and 2007. Massive spoilers for Utopia, speculation on Sound of Drums. Rated for sexual references and mentions of violence.


**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

**A/N: **Just wanted to do a last-minute, pre-Sound of Drums fic in an attempt to fill in some of the Master's time gap. It's pretty rough, but I wanted to post it before the episode airs. Just a quick warning- there is a paragraph of fairly technical political stuff. Skip it if you feel so inclined.

**The Basics of Diabolical Plots**

_1. Always remain in control of the situation._

The Master cursed in several different languages as he attempted to pilot his stolen TARDIS- the stolen TARDIS, actually. TARDISes only ever really belonged to one Time Lord, and this one was most definitely not his. And it- she? He'd never really believed that TARDISes had personalities, but this one seemed to- was almost actively resisting his efforts to pilot it anywhere. No matter what he did, the ship kept edging towards the year 100 trillion in time and Malcassairo in space.

After he'd wrenched it away from the doomed galaxy he'd spent the last few decades in for the third time, he quickly consulted the scanners and his own memory. Then he seized a hammer that someone (almost certainly the Doctor) had attached to the console, most likely for situations such as this, and shouted to the ship at large, "Right! We are going to go to the Torchwood Estate, Scotland, Earth, 1880, and we are going to go there _now_. Or else!"

The ship groaned at him. He whacked it with the hammer. Except instead of the clang and solid vibration of metal against metal, the hammer his something soft. The Master looked at what he'd hit. It was a wad of chewing gum holding two wires together. He rolled his eyes and rapped a different part of the console. The ship screeched and the navigation system sparked- it had been that which the Doctor had attempted to fry- but the TARDIS was moving in the right direction.

He stood right over the console, hammer still in hand, just in case the Doctor's temperamental ship got any more funny ideas.

Finally they arrived at Torchwood Estate, 1880. The Master grinned, both hands and one foot holding down the braking buttons. His previous body could never have managed such a feat. His joy turned to rage, however, as yet another component flared into life, catapulting the TARDIS forward, and then burnt out, taking all the ship's systems with it.

Damn the Doctor, his TARDIS and their bizarre, unpredictable emergency systems.

To add injury to insult, the violent jerk had overbalanced him, sending him sprawling on the metal grille floor. He picked himself up off it for the second time that day, and he could almost hear the Doctor's mocking laughter.

He scrambled over to the offending component. Some sort of waveform extrapolator. Lovely work. Had it not been fused to the TARDIS (the fusion itself lovely work, the Master thought grudgingly) he would not have hesitated in surfing out of here.

Wherever 'here' was. A quick inspection of the ship's console revealed that repairing the TARDIS was beyond the Master's ability (though probably not the Doctor's, the Master thought even more grudgingly). He was stuck here. They'd better have landed on a decent planet.

_2. Set up a base of operations._

The Master poked his head out of the TARDIS. It was in the gap between two buildings, a fair way back from a street. He could hear traffic and smell fumes. The street was lit by electric streetlights.

_I'm on Earth still, aren't I_, the Master thought with considerable exasperation. _Just not in 1880…_

He'd go out and investigate, then return to the TARDIS and perhaps raid the Doctor's wardrobe for some time-appropriate clothing. With his obsession for Earth and its inhabitants, there was sure to be something.

For now, the presence of heavy traffic, fumes and electric streetlights indicated Earth in the late 20th or early 21st century. He looked around for a newspaper. They were usually fairly reliable. But no, he had to go and land on the one street that did _not_ have a newspaper in amongst its litter. He grabbed the discarded wrapper of a Mars Bar with some distaste. The best before date was the third of August, 04. 04 had to be 2004, by the Master's reasoning.

What the hell could he do in 2004? Time to find out. He dashed back into the TARDIS, and after a few wrong turns, found the wardrobe. The Doctor certainly had an impressive collection of human clothing. The fool probably never got rid of anything- there was the ridiculous scarf he wore a few incarnations ago.

He found in himself a strange urge to wear it. His own new incarnation seemed to be a bit mad and impulsive.

So he did put it on as he looked through the many racks of clothing. He decided to take a business suit that looked like it had never been worn, as well as some jeans and a dark leather jacket. He thought the jacket had been worn- it was certainly battered. He chose everything with an eye to blending in. It would not do to have Torchwood or UNIT breathing down his neck.

He hummed as he raided the Doctor's tie rack, shaking his head in disbelief at some of the more lurid ties he found there. He even whistled as he discarded the scarf carelessly on the floor and adjusted the sit of his newly acquired coat on his shoulders. After finding a bag, he stuffed the rest of the clothing –his clothing, now- into it. Packing was apparently not his forte. Further investigation revealed the Doctor's stores of currency. Taking his time for the first time since he left Malcassairo, he meticulously sorted out everything that could possibly be legal tender, and everything that would be legal tender in the next few years.

He might be here for a while, after all. And he didn't think he'd be able to regain entry to the TARDIS once he left, not without the key. On his way out, he picked up a couple more odds and ends- most notably a broken but repairable sonic screwdriver and some psychic paper. They made robbing banks that much easier.

With that cheering thought, the Master practically bounced out of the TARDIS and onto the street.

His first thought was, _London. Of course._ The Doctor was n Anglophile. There was no reason his TARDIS shouldn't be the same. The London Eye was visible above the rooftops.

To business, though. He had to find out exactly when he was, he had to acquire some more money, and he had to figure out a plan to trap the Doctor. There was no question about the last one. They'd been enemies far too long for him to just let the Doctor's existence slide. He doubted that the Doctor would be trapped on Malcassairo, amusing as the thought of the Doctor crushed in the collapse of reality was.

Oh, and he really wanted to get back to the whole 'taking-over-the-world' thing. He'd missed that.

He avoided London's central shopping district for the moment, instead buying a newspaper from a corner shop and checking into a modest hotel.

"Your name for the register, sir?" the girl at the check-in desk asked.

Without a pause, the Master replied "Harold Saxon."

Oooh, that was inspired. Significant, but it wouldn't raise alarm bells like "Mr. Magister" would.

He spent the hours reading the paper and watching the news, and he learned that it was the 22nd of May, 2004. All the time his brain was ticking over.

The best way to ensure the Doctor could not meddle with his plans was to associate himself with Torchwood or UNIT. But UNIT were very familiar with him, and Torchwood would detain him as soon as they worked out he was an alien, which would be during their compulsory and rather unusual medical testing. So he would have to keep tabs on the Doctor some other way.

Politics. The UN was responsible for UNIT, in name at least. Certainly there were political figures aware of the organisation. Torchwood had been set up in 1879, he knew, by Queen Victoria. His knowledge of Torchwood in this century was a bit hazy, but he seemed to remember that there were political figures in Britain aware of Torchwood, if not in charge of it.

Politics would also be an ideal platform to expand his influence. Today Britain, tomorrow the world, and all that. Of course, if he were to take the world 'tomorrow', he would need a bit more than just himself. Well, if he could involve himself with Torchwood, finding aliens and gaining their support should not be much of a problem.

Tomorrow he would use his newly-repaired sonic screwdriver (he felt like the Doctor, repairing and testing the little device) to hack into an ATM. He'd set up a bank account, a history, a life. Then he'd go to the party offices and make himself indispensable.

And when he was indispensable- that would take nine months, maximum- he would kill the Member of Parliament and wait for the by-election magic to start. All in all, the Master thought he could become Prime Minister by the election of 2007.

Though it was well past one in the morning, he didn't even bother to keep his maniacal laughter quiet.

_3. The people around you are tools. Use them._

In August, "Harold Saxon" decided he could use a new suit. The clothes he had taken from the TARDIS were still serviceable- that jacket really was extraordinarily durable- but the Master had since decided that he could afford to treat himself. And it would definitely be good not to have to wear the Doctor's hand-me-downs.

Living on a budget had been a necessary evil for him. What with his salary and the money he was still siphoning off the banks, he might be able to afford a nice apartment in another three months. Then it would be much easier to begin his career as a Member of Parliament. He'd look like an established member of a community, rather than a bachelor living in an (rather dingy) apartment.

But surely, he could afford the suit. The next stage of his plans could probably go into operation in another four months, instead of five. Already the important work of the office was coming to his desk, and he was amassing a reputation as a charming and effective ambassador for the party.

So it was with a light heart that he entered "Carter's Suits". He'd never had a tailored suit before. The girl behind the counter smiled at him and asked, "Can I help you, sir?"

It would cost him nothing to be charming, the Master thought. She could help him; she was eligible to vote. And he actually would require help with this tailored suit business.

"Yes, you can. I need a suit," he said, flashing her a smile he _knew_ charmed many women who came into the office to complain about this or that. Sure enough, the girl responded.

"You came to the right place," she said, her customer-service smile becoming more genuine. "Come on through, we'll get you measured."

When he was standing on the stool, she spoke again. Small talk. "So, how's your day going?"

He continued smiling. "Oh, you know, just another day at the office. The usual people calling in to complain, answering letters. Nothing special, but it needs to be done."

Her brow creased a bit. "You work at the MP's office?"

"Only been there three months. And already I need a new suit."

She laughed. "No, it's just that I've seen you around. Getting lunch and so forth." She made eye contact. "You always look like you're having fun."

Now the Master understood. She was _flirting_ with him. An idea struck him, and he evaluated the possibilities. His political career could be advanced by steady female companionship, or even marriage. He'd already noted that families made for excellent photo opportunities. But he would need such a person to be completely under his thumb, or completely loyal, or both. This idea would work best with someone pretty, young (though not _too_ young; that was frowned upon) and rather naïve, though hopefully not stupid.

He could only attempt this tactic a few times, lest he be labelled a womaniser. Still, he was confident in his abilities to charm people. The Master was not entirely sure how to charm women with 'romantic' intentions in mind, but his approach so far seemed to be working. As they chatted, he slowly increased the wattage of his smile. He was gratified to see her smile widening as well.

"Well, I never knew buying a suit could be so much…_fun_," he said as he was leaving.

"There are still fittings, you know, Mister…Saxon," she said, checking his details. "I'll call you when the time comes."

"Call me Harry, please," the Master replied.

Her eyes shone as she said, "You can call me Lucy, then."

After that, he made sure to schedule his fittings when she would have a shift. His initial impressions of her seemed to be correct- she was not stupid, but very innocent. She was perhaps an ideal candidate for his scheme. So the day after his suit was finished, he visited "Carter's Suits" again.

"Just a minute, sir," she said, not looking up as she scribbled down an appointment time. "Can I help you?"

"Yes, you can. I was wondering if you'd like to come to dinner with me tomorrow night," he said, and displayed the smile he'd come to use especially for her.

The look on her face was enough to make the Master think that he'd definitely found his mark.

In the meantime, his plan was going as well as he'd expected. The Member of Parliament he worked for was old; nobody would be terribly surprised if he died now. With every candlelit dinner, Lucy fell steadily more in love with him. Soon he could start really integrating her into his life. He could take introduce her to his 'boss' and co-workers; he could take her to the party functions he attended. He'd even built up a small profile on Torchwood. He did, after all, know what he was looking for.

He decided to hold off on the one murder he absolutely had to commit, because it would cement Lucy's role in his life. If he waited an extra six weeks, two months even, and went to her as soon as his employer was found dead…his obvious devastation at his loss could make a lot of other things easier to tell her.

For instance, he had to decide soon whether he wanted to marry her and plan accordingly. If he did not choose to marry her, he would never have to disclose that he was an alien. If he did…well, he would have to have sexual intercourse with her, and he doubted that she would fail to observe his double heartbeat. Even during trysts that stopped before the bedroom, he ran the risk of her noticing. And he did _not_ want to explain things to her on the spot. He wanted this controlled.

Six weeks after he began dating Lucy, he decided that he would start hinting about his nature (though obviously not telling her he wanted to take over the planet), kill his employer roughly two months after that, gauge her emotional reaction to his 'distress', and if he judged it adequate, explain and propose about a week afterwards.

If her response were inadequate, well, then he'd just have to kill her, and use the sympathy factor to boost his campaign for preselection.

He started his plan with a drive in the country, so they could see the stars.

"Do you think there's anything up there?" he asked her.

"No," she said. "And even if there were, we can't get there."

"I think there's life out there," he said softly.

"We can hope, I suppose," she replied, looking only at him.

Oh yes, this was all going very much to plan.

Two months later, he knocked on Lucy's door in the middle of the night.

"Harry? What is it?" she asked, anxiousness showing through her bleary expression.

He explained to her in an appropriate voice of complete shock that his employer had been killed in an accident about an hour ago. She stayed up the night, comforting him. She knew how fond he had been of his boss. When he told her he was thinking of running for preselection, she said she'd gladly help him.

A week later, he'd gathered up selected files on Torchwood and the ring he'd bought for this occasion, and set off to her apartment again, ready for the performance of a lifetime.

It was subdued, as he'd expected. He told her he had something vitally important to show her, and spread the files across her kitchen table.

"So you see, Lucy, there _is_ life out there. This proves it." The Master kept his voice quiet. The last thing he wanted was eavesdroppers. It would mean more deaths, and at this stage that was the last thing he wanted. He could only arrange so many car accidents.

Lucy's face was shocked, her eyes fixed on the page. "Oh my god," was all she said. Strong words from a woman who had been raised a devout Catholic. She raised her eyes to meet his. "But…why is this so important, Harry?"

He did not meet her eyes. "Harry?" she asked again.

Damn, he was a good actor, he thought. He took a deep breath. "Because _I'm_ an alien, Lucy." He took both her hands and placed one over each heart.

Lucy's eyes widened. "But…but…oh my god…oh my god…that's impossible!" The Master thought himself fortunate that her voice remained low.

They were silent for a while, but the Master made the next move. He raised his hand to her chin, encouraged when she did not move away or flinch, and asked, "Does it matter to you?" in the most broken voice he could manage. He'd modelled it on the Doctor's pleading to be allowed back into his own TARDIS, which was currently gathering dust in the storage bay he'd hired.

Lucy continued to look at him, eyes bright with tears, but then she abruptly embraced him, sobbing, "No…no…of course not," into his chest. The Master felt a surge of triumph that he did not allow to show on his face. He dug in his pocket for the ring.

"If that's the case…Lucy…would you marry me?"

He deserved an Oscar for this.

By May 2005, he was both a backbencher and newly married.

_4. Do not set your plans in stone. _

He should have remembered. Harriet Jones. As a backbencher, the woman was so easy to forget. Less than an annoyance, as opposed to a major obstacle. Now, the woman was set to become Prime Minister, and all because the Doctor had to interfere.

Not the Doctor he'd last seen- a previous incarnation, he guessed, because he made no effort to seek him out. Just as well, perhaps. He had the future version of his jacket. All the same, one stupid family of Raxicoricofallapatorians and his plans had been significantly set back. The party would not support him against Jones now, and from what he could remember of history, her popularity would not decrease for nearly a decade.

His options were very limited now. He needed control over both foreign policy and defence policy, and the only viable way to do that was by becoming Prime Minister. For now, he decided, he should aim for the defence portfolio. Home Secretary was too likely to result in unpopularity, Foreign Secretary would prevent him setting his domestic plans in motion, and for his purposes, becoming Chancellor of the Exchequer was near useless.

He had a new target now. And it wasn't as if bringing Harriet Jones down from within was out of the question either. She was a politician. None of them were squeaky clean.

Oh, except for him.

His efforts to learn more about Torchwood and UNIT had also been hindered. UNIT was refusing to talk to him- he was only a minor British politician, and the UN was fairly annoyed at Harriet Jones. He didn't push them too hard. UNIT had the most extensive files on him of anyone on Earth, possibly in the universe.

The Doctor didn't count. He didn't make files.

His problems with Torchwood stemmed from the fact that they were a secret organisation. It was damned hard tracking them down, though he was perhaps 80 sure that the London branch was working out of Canary Wharf.

He was _certain_ that there was a branch in Cardiff. Torchwood Three. It was by far the most indiscreet of any of the branches of Torchwood. (He'd heard that they'd just lost Torchwood Four entirely.) But for all that Torchwood Three was definitely based in Cardiff, he could not find any reports of what they did. Their leader was reputed to be friendly, charming, and secretive to the point of total non-communication with his underlings.

A visit to Cardiff after the 'earthquake' had confirmed that there was a branch of Torchwood operating there. Right in the middle of the square, too. No wonder people kept finding out about them. Chances were some people had to be unaffected by that perception filter.

He'd also managed a fleeting glimpse of Torchwood Three's leader. The Master recognised him from Malcassairo- getting close to two years ago, his time. The Doctor's indestructible companion. The Master could feel the wrongness. He'd been quite glad to leave Cardiff, in the end.

To make matters worse, the lack of access to information from Torchwood or UNIT meant that he could not advance the other elements of his plan.

At this point, he decided to start training his aides to search for this information. It was all getting too much for one alien to handle.

_5. Know your enemy._

The Master spent Christmas Day of 2005 with his wife, watching the continued reports on the people standing on the edges of rooftops.

_Do none of you fools know about blood control?_ He thought as he watched the broadcast. He said as much- it wasn't as if Lucy didn't know he knew about aliens.

"Blood control, dear?"

"It's sort of like hypnosis. Everyone on the rooftops is perfectly safe. It's just a bluff."

"Except they probably have weapons, and we don't."

"Except for that, yes."

Curse this. He couldn't interfere; he didn't have the means. Any action would reveal him, and not to his advantage either. And now Harriet Jones, the foolish woman, was on the television, begging for the Doctor to save everyone.

He snorted. "Problem, Harry?" Lucy asked him.

"Oh, it's just this Doctor. It was always like him to play the hero. Did it just before Jones became Prime Minister, too."

The rest of the day passed mostly in silence. At least until the ship above London accelerated away from Earth- and was hit by what the Master thought was some kind of primitive laser.

_Torchwood make, I'll bet_, he thought.

And not two hours later, Jones was on television, her health apparently in jeopardy. The Master was both pleased and disturbed by this development; he knew whose work it was. The Doctor, it seemed, had not approved of Jones ordering fire on the ship, and had acted accordingly.

He had changed history. For revenge.

He must have regenerated. All the information he could collect about the Doctor that wore the black jacket suggested he would not do something like that. He didn't know much about the Doctor that wore the pinstriped suit, but he would in a few months.

Over the past year and a half he'd become aware of the surface similarity between that Doctor and himself. It was possibly a side-effect of consciously modelling his regeneration on him. But he could imagine the manic Doctor (and he certainly had been manic) using his wild energy to hide a still core.

Over the next few months he was proved right. The pinstripe Doctor was responsible for wiping out the Racnoss, and a look through the history books now revealed a village bombed in 1913. An interview with a World War One veteran named Timothy Latimer revealed even more. This incarnation of the Doctor was very, very dangerous.

He told Lucy filtered versions of this information- the Doctor had committed genocide. Twice. He didn't care for people, not really. He was not to be trusted no matter how charming he seemed. The Master found he enjoyed turning people against the Doctor in this manner.

He was looking forward to their confrontation, and the best way to attack him would be through his companions.

The Master knew that the leader of Torchwood Three was a former/current companion of the Doctor. He also knew from his time as Yana that the man was indestructible. He was probably also not from this time, and therefore unlikely to have loved ones available to threaten. Oh, he could target the man's subordinates (the defence portfolio had opened a lot of doors) but then the subordinates could look after themselved.

No, it was far easier to target the Doctors female companions. Initially he had intended to use Rose Tyler's family as hostage, but Canary Wharf dashed that possibility.

Unexpectedly, it also created a new one. What were the chances that the Doctor would pick up a woman whose cousin he had killed? And what were the chances that the entire incident would be caught on tape?

Simply incredible. Francine Jones was very easy to manipulate. He only had to send out his underlings, and he had a trace on the Doctor.

_Keep these things in mind, and the chances that your plan will succeed are greatly increased._

The Master felt things were finally coming together for him. The Doctor had inadvertently done him such a favour in removing Jones. He'd been campaigning for something more than just the defence ministry for a long time. Leadership was in his grasp. The people of Britain loved him.

Above, there were the Toclafane. They would play their part.

Lazlabs, despite the Doctor-assisted death of Lazarus, had continued to prosper.

In Cardiff, the leader of Torchwood Three had vanished. A blue box had been sighted in the square above their headquarters. The Master had gathered that Jack Harkness had only just rejoined the Doctor when they had come to Malcassairo.

His plan was coming together perfectly. Soon, if he escaped the Futurekind, the Doctor would arrive here. More than three years of careful planning and hard work would pay off.

The Master was ready.


End file.
